


How The Light Gets In

by SiwgrGalon



Series: Light a match, ignite a bomb-verse [4]
Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Cliffhanger, Dancing, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life, brief mentions of sex, emotional closeness, mcpriceley, something like fluff I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiwgrGalon/pseuds/SiwgrGalon
Summary: for the first time in months, Connor feels a burst of full clarity, feels the fog lifting just a little. The resulting flutter in his heart, mid-balance on demi-pointe with one foot flexing behind the other, makes him wobble, flail and reach for the barre.He can't bring himself to mind.In which things are looking up, Kevin learns a new skill and someone gets a rude awakening.Can be read alone or as part of the series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, part four - this hasn't been beta'd, but if you see any glaringly painful mistakes, please let me know! :)
> 
> This can also easily be read as a standalone, if you're not clued up / not into the whole series.

When he steps out of their building’s front door, Connor can’t hold back the surprised gasp at the cold hitting his face. Icy air fills his lungs, making him huddle deeper into his oversized scarf. It was a gift from Kevin’s grandma, handmade and easily one of the redhead’s most cherished possessions, especially right now.

He loves days like this, loves the early mornings when the air is crisp and clear and the city’s streets are near-deserted as its residents wake up and prepare to face the day. 

It’s New York City at its most personal, its most intimate. Today it does wonders for Connor’s foggy mind and chases away the last remnants of the oh-so-familiar morning nausea. These past three days, it has been leaning more towards queasiness, but it’s still noticeably there. 

Connor can’t wait for the day it’s gone, although he sometimes thinks it’ll always be lurking. 

With the sun tickling his nose, the redhead squints against the light and allows himself to just stand for a minute and soak up the atmosphere, the quietness. It’s over far too early for his liking, but he has places to be and needs to get a move on. 

The receptionist gives him a little smile when Connor downright bursts through the door, waving him through with a teasing ‘pay on your way out, we can’t have you being late’. 

Connor’s only reply is to mumble something into his scarf, before making off to the changing rooms. He hates being late, and he doesn’t quite know why he is, today. Fact is, though, he is anything but on time and it means the redhead will probably struggle even more than usual to reach the mindset he craves so much. The changing rooms are deserted, and he quickly swaps his layers for a soft pair of sweats and a t-shirt from his bag before rushing off to the studio. 

When he feels the expectant eyes of everyone else on him, Connor tenses. Suddenly, he’s acutely aware of having grabbed the wrong top; it’s a little too tight for the circumstances, Connor thinks, even more so given that he’s taking a class almost exclusively attended by elderly ladies. The trickle of heat down his neck comes as no surprise, especially as one of the younger attendees eyes his chest with a hint of appreciation. 

Despite the slip up yoga is good, really. Everyone is incredibly sweet, they let him pick the spot closest to the door and the teacher uses classical music instead of the usual yoga-stuff. Only completely letting go of the tension is, once more, downright impossible today. 

When the hour is up, Connor’s body feels somewhat limber and loose. His muscles are satisfyingly warm. His mind is still hard at work, though, so he also leaves with a little coil of frustration sitting in his belly. The redhead tries not to dwell on it, but his brain has a mind of its own and slowly spirals out of control, repeating his failures over and over again. 

On the upside, the way to his therapist’s office passes in a blur. Before Connor can work himself into even more of a frazzle, he’s looking into a far more familiar receptionist’s face.

‘Five minutes early, as always,’ she says, throwing a welcoming smile Connor’s way. 

‘In you go, she’ll be with you right away. Would you like a cup of tea again?’

With a small smile of his own Connor declines, making his way into the ever more familiar office. After depositing his bag and coat by the door - only adding the scarf as if it was an afterthought - he lets himself flop onto the sofa, in a moment of unchecked, spontaneous fatigue. 

It’s such a cliché, his mind supplies. A therapist’s office with an actual couch. 

Except he could choose the armchair instead, or one of the simple chairs in front of the desk. Rachelle really isn’t picky, so he could possibly sit on the floor if he wanted to. During his third session, Connor spent a good 25 minutes pacing the room while talking, and she didn’t say a word to stop him.

As he sits and thinks, something heavy lands on the sofa next to him. His head whipping round in surprise and confusion, the redhead finds an unexpected companion: a black-and-white cat, looking far too pleased with itself. They regard each other for a second, before Connor reaches out, letting the feline sniff his fingers before brushing them over its head and playing with its ears a little.

A minute later, and he finds himself with a fluffy parcel of joy curled up in his lap. As he continues to pet his new companion, he's rewarded with plenty of purrs. 

‘I see you didn’t just meet Skittles but already made a new friend.’ 

There’s no judgment in Rachelle’s voice as she silently closes the door behind herself. Bemusement, maybe, but mostly it’s her usual neutral tone, underlined by the soft noise of her shoes on the carpet before she sits down across from him. 

‘I didn’t know you had an office cat.’

‘That’s because, theoretically, she should be upstairs in my apartment, but she sometimes wanders down here.’

Reaching out herself, Rachelle gently taps the cat’s nose. Then, she looks up at her patient and leans back, in a clear sign that she’s starting their session. 

‘How are you doing, Connor?’ 

For a moment there is silence, only interrupted by the continuous low purring, until the young man has assembled everything. 

‘I did yoga this morning, like you said,’ he starts, noting the small smile twitching across Rachelle’s face. 

‘I’ve actually been really good and went to yoga class every morning for the past five days.’ 

‘That’s great to hear. Did it help?’ 

‘Nah. Well, a little, I guess.’

Connor can’t quit hold back the sigh dropping from his lips at the thought. Despite knowing better, he’d put at least a little hope into the idea, only to be faced with his frustrating inability to do anything well. (Which he knows is a lie, but then… is it?) 

‘The fact that I’m inherently good at it and that it helps keep my muscles and joints mobile and flexible and all doesn’t hurt, and it got me out of bed, but it doesn’t really… release the tension, or make me relax.’

That’s why she had initially recommended at least giving it a shot. To help with the side effects, mainly the suddenly present anxiety and tension, of Connor’s latest antidepressant. 

‘That’s fair enough. It was only a guess,’ she says, making a little note. 

‘It’s really good you tried it, though, and I’m proud of you for keeping at it. How are your other side effects coming along? Did anything change?’ 

Connor can’t suppress a second sigh, although it’s more directed at himself than anything else. 

‘I’ve stopped vomiting, so I can full-time eat more than chicken soup, porridge and crackers and the odd bit of fruit… if I'd dare to, because I had morning nausea for the last few days. It’s now just like being a bit queasy, but still not all that pleasant. And I’m… not terrified of eating, but somehow have my reservations, if you get what I mean. Like, I half expect to just throw up anyways, so I restrict myself, and I really don’t like that. It actually makes me feel a bit anxious, or whatever, and it doesn’t necessarily help with the whole “You’re not even worth the dirt on your shoes”-days.’ 

The only reaction Rachelle shows is a little nod, as if encouraging him to go on. 

‘Apart from that I sleep alright – most nights – I’m a bit dizzy at times, the constant yawning is vanishing, and I have all the usual, I guess. Headaches, dry mouth, still absolutely no desire for sex. And even if I wanted, I probably... couldn't.’

She hums, making another note.

‘Any reoccurrence of suicidal thoughts or panic attacks?’

From here on, the pleasant part is over. The redhead knew therapy would be hard work. But even though he’s an emotionally honest person - at least Connor likes to think he is - it’s surprisingly hard to open up, to really let go. 

He’s probably spent more time in this office crying than anyone else. Although when he voiced his concerns, Rachelle repeatedly assured him she didn’t keep a tally and it wouldn’t matter if he were. 

‘What’s important is that we’re here to help you get better,’ she had said, early on in their work together, and moved to sit next to Connor. It’s rare enough for her, the young man would soon learn, but immediately strengthened the trust between them. 

‘For that, you need to be honest with me, but also with yourself. That’s bound to be emotionally challenging, and it won’t always be easy, either. So if crying is your release, your natural reaction, then that’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

Today is one of the harder days. Together, Connor and Rachelle dig deep, although she does allow the young man to take a break when it all gets too much. On his lap, Skittles never ceases to purr, only cuddling deeper when the redhead allows his inner distress to show. 

Yet at no time does he feel unsafe, or left alone. Quite the opposite: his therapist’s presence is the safest he’s felt in a long time. Of course Connor feels safe when he’s with Kevin, very much so, but this session, this room, offers an entirely different kind of safety. 

Rachelle is miles away from the young man’s first therapist. She’s warm and encouraging, but firm when she needs to be. Most importantly, she listens and doesn’t interfere with his life plans. If anything, she continues to very heartily encourage them.

Their first session, the first real session after talking about his family history (and hadn’t that been painful), had started in the way she always went about things: direct, but with the option to back out. 

‘So, Connor, we need to discuss what you want to achieve.’

He had sat silent, thinking, for a second before finding his voice. 

‘Well, I want to resolve,’ he had gestured along the length of his body, ‘this, got lack of a better description. I want to fix myself.’ 

‘You don’t have to confirm to society’s standards,’ she had answered, her voice soft and kind. 

‘Very often, being “fixed” on the basis of a blueprint doesn’t equal happiness.’ 

‘No, not like that. I don't want to be normal, or whatever others think is normal. I'm an actor - people generally think we're a bit weird. But I want this to be, I don't know, manageable. I want my brain to be manageable, and all the issues I probably carry around with me.'

He had sighed, running his hand through his hair. It's what his nan (and Kevin, after he had figured it out) did and does when Connor was upset, or when he did something well; repeating the motion always offers some form of comfort, of assurance. It also gave Connor a bit of time to think. 

'And... don't judge me, I know it's ridiculously ambitious and probably impossible, but I want to be stable by winter. Like, not completely, just… somewhat emotionally stable. A little. Most of the time. 

‘Therapy takes longer, I know that. But I just want to start being me again.’

Across from him, Rachelle’s face had remained carefully neutral, apart from a slightly raised eyebrow. 

‘I mean, we’ll spend the holidays with my partner’s family, and I don’t want to put them - and myself - through the joys of an unstable version of myself. My boyfriend’s been getting enough of that already.’

'Ambitious, yes,' she had said, then, a little smile playing around her lips as she made a note. 

'Impossible, I wouldn't say. Unless you have to go through 15 different antidepressants, that is.' 

'Wait, you're giving me...? But it's only the first session?' 

'Going by your history with depression and the state I find you in, yes. And we’ll get you started as soon as possible. Because, and I hope you don't mind me saying this, without some chemical help, this is going to be a lot harder on you, and that wouldn’t be fair.’

Despite all he had hoped for - and Connor definitely had hoped, even downright prayed, for even the smallest form of relief, for something to keep his mind at bay - the redhead had had to realize something else: he was scared. Although of what, he wasn’t quite sure. 

Rachelle, however, had been excellent in listening to his worries, his concerns, and done all she could to offer reassurance.

And then it had spilled out, the thing about his very first experience with therapy, the hours spent praying and even the bits he had left out, or rather watered down a little, when talking to Kevin. The labor, the feeling of being destroyed, of having lost his own personality (although Connor knew his first real foray into real, actual therapy, after his suicide attempt, had helped with that. A lot.). 

He had talked about feeling lost without his family, but also about being stronger and more independent for their absence. Not to mention the redhead spent a good ten minutes gushing about his ‘new’ family, going by the surname of Price, and how he felt they had taken him in and just accepted him for who he is.

The security and acceptance, his newfound proper home, and the incredible feeling of being loved unconditionally manifesting itself in the form of Kevin. Those were the good things in his life. 

In the end, he had sat in Rachelle’s office far longer than he was necessarily comfortable with, but he had been tender and vulnerable and she had refused to let him leave like this. The young man had felt guilty for messing up her schedule. As it later turned out, the effect hadn’t been all too severe. Not to mention the effect it had on their working relationship, and the rapidly building trust, had been more than worth it.

Now, weeks later, being open is getting easier by the session, although most of them still see Connor cry at least once. He’s self-conscious about it, about appearing unmanly. 

Today Rachelle seems to be hell-bent on getting him to talk that particular fear out. 

At least the words ‘internalized homophobia’ fall comparatively early on (and that’s when Connor has to interrupt). 

‘I’m not homophobic,’ he objects. Connor is acutely aware of how upset he sounds, but he doesn’t want to censor himself here.

‘I’m a gay man, I’m not sure if I’m capable of being a homophobe.’

With a deep sigh he lets himself fall backwards, his hands - and the purring - coming to a halt as he stares at the ceiling. 

‘I’m… Sometimes I feel like I’m less of a man for it,’ Connor brings himself to say, trying to hold in the tears. 

‘It’s not even the being gay thing - gosh, I’ve learnt to embrace that, I hope - but the whole… crying like a baby, the way I suddenly turn a bit camp at times, like a sissy,’ 

‘See, that’s what I mean,’ Rachelle interrupts. She sounds uncharacteristically sharp, but quickly drops the edge in her voice. 

‘I’ve never heard you use any derogatory term, except in situations like this one, and they’re always directed at yourself.

‘I’m not saying you’re a homophobe, Connor. But if you want this to work out and help, we need to do some work on you learning to fully accept, and maybe even start to like, those parts of yourself.’ 

For a minute, silence reigns, before Connor noisily swallows.

‘Can we take a two-minute break? I think I need to think.’

It isn’t exactly smooth sailing, and there are more than enough tears. But as they work through everything together, Connor slowly feels a weight lifting. It’s not like it’ll cure his depression, or instantly make him feel okay - it’s more like a revelation, like finding the answer to a question you’ve asked yourself for the longest time. 

The pieces of this puzzle, it seems, are slowly starting to somewhat fit together. As if you’re starting with the borders and slowly working yourself towards the middle, towards completing the whole picture, the redhead is laying down the framework. From himself to his family’s involvement to the effect of his former faith and everything that happened post-Steve Blade had. 

All in all, Connor genuinely thinks therapy is worth it, even though it’s trying and, if he’s fully honest with himself, he already has had plenty of days where he didn’t want to come to the office at all. 

As they wrap up the session, the cat in the former missionary’s lap stretches in the epitome of laziness. As she slowly blinks up at him, Connor feels a small smile take over his entire face and he can’t resist booping the pink nose. Or taking a picture. Or, with a slightly apologetic look directed at his therapist, bending down and taking a selfie, which he promptly sends to Kevin, heart-eyed emoji included. 

‘You’re not the first person I see taking a selfie,’ Rachelle says, mirth evident in her voice. 

‘No, but it’s a little ironic considering what we just talked about,’ the redhead shoots back, looking up again. 

At that, the therapist just nods, before smiling once more. 

‘Well, you could see it as step one to your weekly goal,’ she says. 

‘Or, realistically, probably step three. Judging by how you carry yourself on good days, and, which might surprise you, on some of the bad ones, too, you probably won’t feel like this once the fog lifts.’ 

‘That’s what years of dancing do,’ the redhead simply says. 

‘Which is why I’m going to the studio now. You know, to get started on that goal.’ 

A chuckle is all he earns in response, followed by a pat on his arm.

‘I’m sure you’ll do great.’ 

As he wraps up in his hoodie, coat and the big scarf again, Connor feels his feline friend nuzzle his legs. Despite trying, he can’t hold in the coo. 

‘Can she be here more often?’ 

‘Maybe,’ Rachelle says, the smile on her face clearly audible in her voice.

‘You’re one of the few people who’s not distracted by her, and she actually seems to help, so… it’s not a promise, but we’ll see how the next sessions go, and how you’re doing.’

As she sees him out, Connor can’t resist petting Skittles once more before he shoulders his bag and hits the streets for the third time today. 

If there’s a little more of a spring in his step, he doesn’t notice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a doctor, by all means - the medical information In this is inspired / based on a few friends' experiences with antidepressants.

When Kevin stretches, his foot poking out from underneath the duvet, he can’t help the little shiver shaking his body.

He blearily sits up, just looking and listening. On his exposed arms, goosebumps rise. Winter truly is here, and their bedroom is unusually cold. What’s also cold is the other side of the bed, normally occupied by a certain, red-haired former missionary.

If the couple aren’t spooned up or otherwise curled around each other, that is, however rare it may be.

Going by the silence around Kevin, and his slightly foggy memory, Connor had dashed off early for yoga and his therapy session. A shame, because right now, Kevin is really in the mood for long and lazy Saturday morning cuddles. The kind where your feet rub together, your hands pet and stroke and wander, and you lie so close you lose track of where you end and the other person begins.

The kind of cuddles which, for them, almost inevitably, used to end in a make out session or more. Until _the pills_ happened, and their sex life un-happened. Not that either of them ever complains, really - ever since, they've both found a new appreciation for just cuddling, and being close and intimate in other ways. 

Kevin will never forget the first time Connor opened up a bit more about growing up pretending to be straight, about Steve Blade and the crush on his dance teacher. He'd worn a little, wistful smile while speaking, and Kevin had truly felt like he'd discovered a new side to his long-term partner. 

But here he is now, alone in their bed, alone in their apartment, with no trace of his fiancé. What a shame, indeed.

Having resigned himself to a cuddle-free morning, at least for now, the former missionary peels his body out from underneath the covers. Now that he’s truly awake, he might as well get himself breakfast and try to find out where Connor made off to. Because if he only had therapy, he should be back soon. And while lazy cuddles might be off the table for now, a nice breakfast certainly isn’t. Especially not after the weeks they’ve had.

The orange bottles innocently sitting on their kitchen counter, most between half and three quarters filled, bear witness to that.

Prozac. Luvox. Paxil. Zoloft.

They’re not that many, in reality, but Kevin still sighs as he looks at them. Everyone, including his father, had said starting out on antidepressants wouldn’t be easy. _Too true_ , the young man thinks, taking a minute to reflect while he gets his morning coffee started. No warning could’ve quite prepared them for what was about to come.

Connor had been downright excited, or as much as he could be, when he got his first prescription. So had Kevin, if he was honest, because seeing his partner suffer, however quietly he did, hurt. The redhead’s sudden bout of hopefulness had been infectious.

Then he’d started taking them, and things definitely didn’t go as planned. Not at all.

Prozac had been fair and well for about a week, before the restlessness started. Two or three days onwards, and the joint pain had come. It didn’t get much better after a week, but was accompanied by hives; it all seriously impaired the redhead visiting classes, and that’s when Connor’s doctor had called that one off.

Next had been Paxil, which had gone… Kevin doesn’t want to weigh it, doesn’t think it’s his place to make these decisions and comparisons for Connor. Looking at everything as objectively as possible, though, it had maybe gone a slightly worse than the Prozac, still.

The runny nose the redhead hadn’t seem to fussed about. Neither did the stomach pain bother him all too much, according to his own words. Having trouble sleeping, however, took a toll on him, and once the pills started kicking in, he’d said he felt drugged and like his brain had been wrapped in wool. Then the dissociation started.

One night, a quietly crying Connor, radiating desperate vulnerability, had sat on the floor of their kitchen. He’d said he felt even more empty and emotionless than before and practically begged Kevin to do something, anything. The young man had been minutes away from calling an ambulance, but on Connor’s insistence had opted for Rachelle instead, who managed to talk some sense into Connor.

That had been that.

Sometimes, Kevin still dreams of that night. Mostly, it's whispers of the memory, just before nodding off, but it definitely left a mark.

Then came Luvox. That had given Connor funky dreams. At first it had amused both of them, but soon became tedious for the redhead. They were followed by a few other unpleasant things, including a lovely rash on Connor’s already sensitive enough skin, before it triggered insomnia.

Zoloft seemed to work at first, but then made Connor faint repeatedly. Lowering the dosage helped with the fainting, but not the depression, so McKinley and Rachelle decided it wasn’t worth it.

Which brought them to Celexa.

Thankfully, that seems to be going down a better route, after McKinley made it through what they both dubbed the ten days of hell.

At first, the side effects confused and bothered Kevin, making him think there was no hope. Especially the fact that the pills seemed to upset Connor’s stomach a hell of a lot. Vomiting doesn’t squick the former missionary out, but he'd constantly felt sorry for his partner.

The first time the redhead had made a beeline for the bathroom after dinner hadn’t looked too weird - he had been stressed and not feeling well, and everyone got sick at times. They’d both thought nothing of it and just went to sleep, curled up close together.

The next day, it had blown into Connor being unable to stomach anything much. He’d tried chicken soup and crackers, courageously followed an apple, and that had stayed in, so the redhead settled on self-diagnosing it as the stomach flu. It had been a little weird, considering he wasn’t feeling rotten, but still, he just went with it. And Kevin followed, because who was he to doubt?

With no change in sight, day three and four had sent him into a worry, but Connor had been remarkably composed.

‘It’s the pills,’ he had said, a shiver shaking his body as he curled against Kevin on the sofa.

‘They mess with your brain, and then your brain messes with your body, and after a few days everything should settle.’

‘You sure? It didn’t really with the first ones… .’

‘I am, but can we talk about something else, please?’

The former missionary had wanted to protest, but Connor had looked at him so imploringly, he had to concede defeat.

The fifth night, Kevin had followed his partner into the bathroom, ignoring his weak protests. He’d rubbed Connor’s back and offered him mouthwash and a cup of water, before leaning against the bathtub. After pulling his former District Leader, now soon-to-be husband into a hug, and with one of his hands gently stroking Connor’s belly, the young man had attempted to express his thoughts and make his other half feel better.

‘Maybe you should, I don’t know, switch to something else?’

‘No, that’s not how it works, Kev.’ Connor had sounded raspy and a little exhausted; no wonder, Kevin thought, after throwing his guts up repeatedly.

‘They all come with side effects, and just like they take time to work, they take time to… not fuck you over as much.’

‘I don’t know how you do this, and without complaining,’ Kevin had murmured, pulling Connor closer and burying his nose in the red hair.

He didn’t mind that the strands were a bit sweaty, or that Connor was trembling with exertion, or that the faint smell of someone being sick still lingered. What he did mind, though, was to see his partner suffer like that. After a minute, Connor had cautiously relaxed, letting his head drop against Kevin’s collar bone and closing his eyes, just for a second.

‘Well, the other option is far more depressing, pun not intended.’

They had both chuckled at the gosh-awful joke. It was true, there was no denying that, but Kevin keenly remembers the stab of fear he felt that second. He’d pressed a kiss into Connor’s hair, and they’d sat there for a little while, just being.

‘I’m sorry,’ Connor had murmured, disrupting the silence.

‘I’m sorry for being such a mess, and for you having to deal with me like this. I don’t know how you stick around, and I probably don’t show my appreciation enough, but…’

At that point Kevin’s phone buzzes, ripping him out of the memory. Fittingly enough, it’s a message from Connor. When he opens it, the former missionary can’t help but chortle at seeing his partner cuddled close to a cat.

[Kevin, 9:07] Aaw, cute!  
[Kevin, 9:07] You doing okay?  
[Connor, 9:10] I’m fine :)  
[Kevin, 9:11] How long till you’re home?

For a long time there’s nothing. With his mug in one hand, staring out the window, Kevin allows his thoughts to drift once more - at least until something else catches his eyes.

On the windowsill, next to the eagerly growing basil plant they sometimes jokingly refer to as their child, lies a book. Simple, black, leatherbound, a silver pen resting on top, it looks as innocent as it looks somewhat picturesque.

Almost unwittingly, Kevin picks it up, turning the slim book over and over in his hands. It feels lighter than it should, given the content, and its slightly battered edges speak of the weeks, the months of use. The young man knows it’s wrong, but the urge to open it, to read just a few lines, is pulling at his insides. Just to understand, to see what Connor sees and feels and how he is really doing. How he feels when he's not censoring himself.

Kevin lets the pages rifle through his fingers, enjoying the paper’s low scratching sound, before pushing his thumb between the cover and page one. He bites his lip as he opens it, anxiety and anticipation coiling in his belly.

The first page is blank, save for the pre-printed lines.

With a deep breath, he turns to page two. His eyes firmly fixed to the top of the page, he can make out two things: the date, neatly written as if Connor put a lot of effort in. As if he had been stalling. And then a sentence, four words in neat cursive, occupying one line: ‘Well, this is hard.’

Kevin slams the book closed, but it’s too late. The shame and guilt hit him square in the chest, and immediately his brain begins to pitch in.

_How can you think about this? How do you dare consider reading even just one sentence?_

The young man drops the offending item onto the table as if it was suddenly burning hot. Nothing happens apart from a low thumps, but the stares at it in disdain, for good measure.

Oh, this was so wrong. And he’d definitely have to fess up, or face the hell dream.

As if on cue, his phone beeps once more just then.

Kevin scrambles, just like he would if Connor was to physically appear next to him, to answer. Maybe it’s his intuition, he thinks, maybe he knows something’s not right, and that’s why he texted. When Kevin opens the message, though, his fears vanish for a second, because Connor is most definitely not onto him. Not a chance.

[Connor, 9:38] I’m just at the studios, so will be home after :)

A second of careful thinking, of staring out the window once more, and Kevin knows what to do.

In draining his cup, he picks up the book and makes for the bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

Once the dance belt and leggings are on, Connor feels his posture shift. He stands that little bit straighter, carries his head that little big higher, as he carries his stuff into the studio and takes a moment to assemble himself. 

Sunlight floods in through the large windows, warming the room as much as the dancer’s body, but he still pulls on his favorite pair of warm-up bottoms. They’re soft, knitted by his grandmother, and hilariously colorful. Connor doesn’t care whether he looks ridiculous or not - if anything, he enjoys it and catches sight of a smile when he looks at his reflection in the mirror as he moves one of the barres into the middle of the room. 

Dancing has never been a chore but always a passion, yet today it feels inexplicably harder than it ever has. Except maybe that first time depression came to visit, but Connor’s memory is rather vague. It’s probably for the better, he thinks, so he doesn’t delve to deep. 

Still, he starts easy. Just going through the basic positions, followed by port de bras for good measure and a few raises onto demi pointe. The only sound is the floor’s low squeaking and swishing whenever the redhead changes position or slightly shifts his weight, mixing in with his regular breathing. 

The motions’ familiarity is grounding and comforting, and when he shakes and shimmies to loosen his muscles, Connor feels ready. Or as ready as he’ll ever be, with the remaining tension nagging at the back of his head. 

He starts his playlist, before stepping in front of the barre again, letting the soft piano music lull him in. 

The first song always allows for some last-minute prep. That’s something Connor learnt early on, to always be early and be prepared. To pass the time, he rises on his toes, before carefully rolling over them. Hanging onto the barre, he places his full weight onto the tops of his feet and rests for a minute, just feeling the pressure on his bones.

Then the warm-ups come off, after all, and Connor begins. 

The first five minutes at the barre are frustrating, to say the least. 

‘This is the worst you’ve ever danced,’ Connor's unhelpful mind supplies, 'and look at you. Are you serious about those lines?'

He allows himself half a minute to look in the mirror then, to take in the Connor McKinley of right now. Between the side effects and his generally reduced appetite he’s lost a fair few pounds. Normally it’s not that noticeable, at least he likes to think so, but in ballet gear, it becomes obvious. 

Connor doesn’t mind, or not too much, but he’d still like himself better with that weight back on. 

But despite the nagging voice he keeps pushing, keeps bending his knees in plies, keeps rising and balancing and, most importantly, keeps his head up, like he's always been taught. Like a prince, his ballet mistress had said. Although Connor doesn’t feel very royal, he refuses to lower his gaze even just an inch.

It’s not easy, but he persists. 

At some point, and he doesn't know exactly when but it must have been mid-grand plie, the black dog gets bored; for the first time in months, Connor feels a burst of full clarity, feels the fog lifting just a little. The resulting flutter in his heart, mid-balance on demi-pointe with one foot flexing behind the other, makes him wobble, flail and reach for the barre. 

He can't bring himself to mind.

With every step, every tendu, every change of position, Connor feels himself relaxing into the music and the movement. The stiffness, caused by the permanent, bone-deep exhaustion coming with his mental state soon makes way for more fluidity and the familiar lightness ballet always brought along. 

And that’s how Kevin finds him: sunken into his own world, dancing variation after variation in wild abandon. 

It wasn’t really hard to know where to go, once Kevin had reached the college dance studios. Simply follow the notes of Philipp Glass’ string quartets, and there McKinley is. 

A fine layer of sweat covers his pale skin, making it glisten in the sun. His red hair is dark with dampness along the hairline, curling slightly in Connor’s neck as he leaps and turns across the floor. 

But it’s the relaxed expression on his face that gets Kevin, makes him smile as he sits down next to his fiancé’s stuff and frees himself of his own bag. 

At first, the redhead doesn’t seem to notice him, he’s that concentrated. But when he turns and his eyes catch the other man’s a little smile flits over his face, before he focuses on dancing again. 

‘Is it okay for me to be here?’ Kevin asks once the song stops and Connor starts making his way over to where his phone is hooked up to the PA system. 

‘Yeah, sure,’ he replies, running a hand through sweaty hair and mussing it up in that adorable way Kevin likes so much. It always reminds him of people in the movies - cute guys in the movies, to be more precise, only that Connor is the cutest of them all, in his eyes. 

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ 

Kevin looks just a tiny bit shy when he answers, after a second of careful consideration. 

‘I don’t know… I thought you might want your peace and quiet from me, at least for a little bit, and that’s why you went here.’ 

Ah. That’s unexpected, Connor thinks - he’d expect Kevin to be the one wanting a bit of freedom. Sometimes, the former District Leader thinks, sometimes Kevin must surely get fed up with his wet rag of a depressed boyfriend. It never crossed his mind that that might not be the case; the realization makes a warm tingle spread through Connor’s belly, before the depression weakly wags its tail and tells him it’s probably nonsense. 

‘No, not at all! If you’re alright with watching me dance, why would I mind?’ 

Connor scrunches up his nose in amusement, then, because he knows the kinds of reaction his next sentence will trigger. 

‘And if you’re not fed up with Philipp Glass, that is, because I fear that’s what’s on the menu now. At least one more song.’ 

With a low groan - and a broad smile plastered onto his face - Kevin rolls his eyes and dramatically lets himself flop backwards, the back of his hand resting against his forehead. 

‘Not him! Anything but him!’ 

The redhead just scoffs, silently walking towards the center. 

‘You’re an idiot, Kevin,’ he says, voice dripping with barely concealed, if slightly exasperated, affection before the music starts and he’s off.

‘Yeah, but I’m your idiot,’ the man in question mumbles, voice drowned out by the music. He just sits and watches as Connor moves, as he turns in pirouettes and fouettes while Glass gives way to what Kevin knows is Swan Lake. 

He likes watching the redhead’s muscles work, from his arms to the tips of his toes. It’s also quite impressive to see him clear a good five feet of air beneath him while making it look absolutely effortless. 

But if Kevin is completely honest with himself, he doesn’t see much of the dancing beyond looking at Connor’s butt. Even more so right now, when he’s stretching at the barre and _everything_ is very much served on a platter. It’s not like ballet dress leaves much to the imagination anyways, but the movement puts Connor’s body even more on display. 

If he didn’t know the redhead to be comfortable in this, Kevin would feel like a pervert. Instead, he enjoys the view and stows the images away to tide him over their dry spell.

‘How do you make lifting your leg at a 90 degree angle look so easy,’ he blurts out, and Connor just chuckles. 

‘I can whack my foot all the way up to my ears… it’s only half way, when you think about it,’ comes the bemused answer. 

The endorphins racing through his body make him sound a little giddy, and even though Connor doesn’t feel it 100%, he still feels lighter and maybe even a little… happiness. 

‘Wanna see?’ 

Kevin looks definitely interested, so Connor just does as he said. Holding onto the barre with his left hand, he slowly raises his right leg through developpé until he can grasp his right foot just next to his head. 

‘Ta-da…?’ 

‘Whoa.’

Across the room, Kevin looks a little stunned, but dutifully applauds. A few more stretches, and Connor makes his way over. Kevin half rises to steal a quick kiss, before his partner carefully lowers himself to the floor and into a split. 

‘Have I ever told you how much that freaks me out?’ 

‘What does?’ 

‘You just casually doing the splits,’ Kevin says, fondly tapping Connor’s nose.

‘I mean, I know you can spread your legs exceptionally wide, but this always makes me pause for a second.’

That earns him a swat and a huff from Connor, followed by a shake of the head that’s definitely not as annoyed as he’d like Kevin to believe.

‘You’re impossible! I have to stretch, unless you want me not just depressed, but in pain, too.’ 

Kevin reaches out, then, running his hand through Connor’s hair and down the side of his face to let it rest on the other man’s cheek. 

‘Never could,’ he murmurs, absent-mindedly. 

‘How are you doing, Con? I mean, really doing?’ 

The thing about Kevin is that his questions regarding Connor’s health and wellbeing are always so genuine, so sincere, they make the other man swallow down tears. It’s a stark reminder of his mental state, but Connor doesn’t quite know whether he likes it or not. 

‘I’m okay. I said I’m fine, and that wasn’t wrong or code. I’m full of endorphins from moving, but it’s metering out to… okay. Still depressed, but today is okay, so far. The meds haven’t fully kicked in, so it’s a balancing act at best, but we’re getting there, I think. 

‘Yoga didn’t really help, as per always, but the session with Rachelle was quite good,’ he says, sighing a little. 

‘Tap still doesn’t sound right, though, which made me cry in the changing room.’ 

‘Aaaw, no. How do you mean?’ 

Ah, bless Kevin and his inexperience with dance, Connor thinks as he leans forward and rests his chest on the floor, arms stretched out to the side. 

The stretch, from his hamstrings up to his lower back, feels good. Freeing. Relieving parts of the tension that has built up over the last weeks and months. 

‘Well… it’s hard to explain, but it just didn’t sound right. It’s like something’s missing, like it sounds hollow. The fact that I feel sluggish and slow doesn’t help either. I know it’s because I’m perpetually sad and don’t have the energy to make it… energizing, or fun; I’m probably not as bad as I think, because I am quite good at pretending. 

‘And I reckon it would’ve come together at some point, but I was stressing myself out over it, so that’s that. Don’t really want to ruin a thing I usually love.’ 

Kevin just strokes his shoulders in response, and for a few minutes, they exist in the silence of the room. 

Froms somewhere down the hallway, soft piano melodies carry up towards them; one of the weekend non-student classes must have a live pianist. Between the music, Kevin’s occasional touch, and the redhead concentrating on breathing calmly, it is surprisingly relaxing. 

‘Have you had breakfast?’ 

Connor looks up, then, as far as his position allows. It’s not comfortable at all, so after a second he gives in, closing the split and raising his upper body until he can rest his head on his hands to look at Kevin. 

‘I had an apple on the way to yoga…?’ 

‘Connor.’

Kevin doesn’t have to say more - the slightly exasperated tone of his voice reveals every implication. 

‘Kevin.’ 

‘Don’t Kevin me. You need to eat, Con,’ the young man says, sighing a little as he holds Connor’s gaze. 

‘I know, but… it’s not that easy.’ 

‘Are you still feeling that bad?’ 

Well, is he? In comparison to the first days, Connor feels quite alright - not grand, but alright. And most importantly not like all his senses and emotions have been replaced by wool and static. The brain fog remains, but even that’s slowly lifting, at least on some days. 

‘Not bad, per se, but… I was a bit meh this morning. Like, queasy, and I didn’t want to take the risk of throwing up again,’ Connor mulls. 

‘Especially not during yoga, because that would’ve just been embarrassing. And generally I’ve had enough of that.’

‘But you haven’t been sick in a few days…?’ 

Connor just sighs, nodding solemnly. There’s no denying that Kevin’s right, but his mind doesn’t care much for that. The thought of eating anything beyond his - admittedly limited - comfort zone right now fills him with a tiny spark of dread. Even if he rationally know it’ll likely stay in, for lack of a better word. 

‘I know, but it’s…,’ he says, before dropping his head so his hands are cradling his forehead. 

‘I’m still dubious about food, and probably a bit too careful. And I hate it, so, so much…’ 

His stomach chooses that moment to rumble, interrupting the train of thought in the best way possible. Connor is sure he looks like a startled deer (that’s what Kevin described him as once, and the redhead can see where he’s coming from). When he glances at his fiancé, he finds a similar look etched onto his face. 

For a tense second they stare at each other, before bursting into giggles. His body shaking with mirth, Kevin reaches into his bag and produces a banana. Connor takes it with a murmured thanks, before he grasps his warm-ups and bunches them up below his arms. There’s no way he’ll leave a trace of breaking the ‘no eating in the studios’ rule.

For a minute or two there’s no sound apart from Connor’s quiet munching. Kevin slowly moves, the floor squeaking in response. He stretches out his legs alongside the other man and leans back on his forearms, just holding McKinley’s gaze. 

‘So… how was your session? If you’re okay with me asking or even want to talk about it, that is.’ 

Somehow he appears unsure, or maybe guilty about something. As if he’s gauging Connor’s mood. 

‘It was… enlightening, in some ways, I think, but I’ll still need to mull that over.’ 

Another bite, and Connor takes extra time to chew. 

‘But, and this is the good part, I’ll keep taking the meds, kinda. Rachelle is considering switching me to Lexapro.’

Kevin’s eyebrow twitches a little, as if he has a question but doesn’t dare word it. 

‘It’s the improved version of citalopram, and she said it’s likely to help with the side effects, especially the nausea,’ Connor helpfully provides.

He pauses, unsure of whether to bring up the next topic. The little voice in his head tells him not to do it, to not alert Kevin to the glaringly obvious lack taking up space in their relationship right now. But it’s something that needs addressing, so Connor takes a deep breath and decides to get it over with. 

‘Plus, I have the hope that switching means I’ll have something like a sex drive again.’ 

Connor can feel the blush shooting into his cheeks. Turning his head to the side, he hopes Kevin didn’t see it; the hand on his chin, however, makes it abundantly clear that he has. 

‘Hey, Con,’ he says ever so softly, while gently turning McKinley’s head. 

‘You know I love you and I want to be with you even without us having sex, right?’ 

Of course Connor does. Or part of him does. The part that’s valiantly trying to keep the depression at bay. The redhead nods in response, swallowing thickly against the tears. 

‘I know, but it’s still not fair on you,’ he says, hating how his voice wavers.

‘And I hate it, too. I miss feeling you and tasting you and I just… miss sleeping with you. Not just next to you. But I’m nearly 25, and I don’t want to take any medicine to just… get hard. That’d feel so degrading.’

‘Have you spoken to Rachelle about this?’ 

‘A little. She said to wait for it all, for me, to settle, and then we’ll see, because the mix of pills might as well contribute. If you want to, you could come to a session with me, though… that might be helpful? For, you know, both of us?’

Inviting Kevin is scary, somehow. Connor has thought about it a few times, but never actually said it out loud. Now that he has, he’s tense with fear of a rebuttal. 

Luckily, Kevin is his ever-gracious, loving self. 

‘I’d really, uhm, like that? Like, does that sound weird? I’d like to come along’ he says, ‘thank you for inviting me. I feel honored.’

They fall back into companionable silence. Kevin looks to be contemplating, and Connor doesn’t want to disturb him, so he just lets his thoughts wander. 

Sometime next year, hopefully, they’ll get married. At the mere thought, his heart flutters and a little smile tugs at Connor’s lips. He imagines Kevin in a sharp tux, his eyes twinkling, them twirling in their first dance. Connor would even let Kevin lead, or they could switch, maybe after a turn. 

It doesn’t feel quite right, with the shadow of his otherwise gloomy thoughts hanging over them, but it’s comforting and, most importantly, a sign of hope. A sign that Connor is on his way to being better, a sign that the pills are finally, finally starting to work as they should and that the shadow is already a lot smaller than it was a few weeks ago. 

Yet something else distracts him, over and over again. Rachelle’s word still ring in his ear, and the former District Leader soon finds himself mulling over them. 

‘How many pirouettes can you actually do in a row?’ 

Whether its Kevin’s intuition, curiosity or just his pure randomness, Connor is grateful for the sudden distraction. He sits up, properly, to curiously look at Kevin. 

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Pirouettes,’ Kevin repeats. He pauses for a second, but when there’s no immediate answer, repeats his question. 

‘Oh… uhm… .’

They’ve been together for so long, and Connor only just realizes the younger man has rarely seen him dance ballet, and certainly never anything exciting. 

‘In flat shoes it depends, but a good… 20, I reckon? It’s nine or ten in pointe shoes, and last time I counted normal slippers allowed for plenty more.’ 

‘Wait, you can do the tiptoe thing?’ 

Now, Kevin just looks confused. 

‘But isn’t that a girl’s thing?’

His eyes are so wide, and his mouth open in a little ‘o’ - Connor has rarely seen him look this stupid. And despite his fondness for the man, the redhead also makes little to no effort to keep the small slice of exasperation out of his voice. He’s been over this question so many times, even the fact that it’s Kevin asking can’t make it less annoying. 

‘Yes, it classically is, and yes, I can. First it was because I was the only boy and just did what all the girls did, and then my teacher insisted all boys do a bit of pointe work, too.’ 

The other man seems satisfied enogugh with the answer, but Connor can still see his mind working. He dreads to think of what’ll come next, but internally steels himself for ridicule and the inevitability of being called twinkle toes.

Gosh, Connor hates being called twinkle toes. With a few exceptions, that is. Poptarts sometimes does so, in affectionate jest, and so does Connor’s oldest sister. But with everyone else, it had been derogatory, a way of calling him faggot without actually saying it.

Somehow, even if he knows Kevin wouldn’t use it in malice, Connor doesn’t want to hear those two words out of the mouth he’s kissed so often. 

‘That’s… wow. Can you teach me how to do pirouettes?’

If Kevin hears the relieved sigh, he doesn’t show any big reaction to it.

‘That takes ages to learn, Kev.’

‘Oh, but please. At least let me try?’ 

Nobody should be allowed to have puppy dog eyes like Kevin Price does. Especially no grown man, Connor thinks. 

‘I can teach you the basics, and how to - theoretically - do a nice turn, but that means doing an entire class first.’ 

‘Please, Connor. I’ll do whatever, really, but I want to try.’ 

An insistant Kevin Price is hard to sway. In turn, after a moment’s hesitation, McKinley feels his resistance crumble. It expresses itself in a silent nod, while the redhead tries to order his thoughts. 

‘It’ll be uncomfortable in jeans, though.’

‘That’s alright,’ Kevin says, his eyes wandering towards Connor’s bag. 

‘Or I could wear your sweats… they’re they wide ones that fit me, right?’ 

Another slightly stumped nod. It’s not that Connor doesn’t want to teach Kevin, but he’d also quite like a nap right now. It wouldn’t be beyond him to just curl up on the studio floor - he could choose a sunny spot, too - but with fatigue creeping in, the redhead knows 15 minutes won’t cut it. 

Not to mention that Kevin, of all the people in Connor’s life, seemed among the least likely to ever take an interest in dance. 

Funny how wrong he can be, because right now, the blond looks very excited indeed. Connor doesn’t want to waste the chance, braing fog be darned. 

‘Awesome, great!’

With that, Kevin grabs the proffered pair of sweatpants. 

‘Take a different shirt, too - unless you want to go home sweaty,’ Connor says, then falls quiet as he watches Kevin dig through the bag. 

‘Connor, are you sure you’re alright with this?’ 

‘Yeah, sure. Why?’

Kevin looks pensive, taking a step closer. One of his hands clenches and unclenches around the clothes in his arms. 

‘You sound a bit… I don’t know, resigned? Unhappy? I can’t put my finger on it. You can say no if you don’t want to do this. I know it’s hard for you to do that, at the moment, but there are no hard feelings, promise.’ 

‘No, I’m not unhappy,’ he is quick to answer. It’s true, it really is, but Kevin doesn’t look convinced. 

‘I’m just a bit tired, which is giving me brain fog and a low moment, I guess. Ideally I’d take a nap, but if I go to sleep now, I’ll have one of those all-sleep days… just get changed, and meanwhile that banana is going to wake me up.’ 

‘You sure?’ 

‘I’m sure.’ 

A nod, and Kevin makes off. The redhead chews his lip as he watches his partner’s retreating back. He feels a little off-center, now, but the next 90 minutes should fix that. Will fix that, hopefully. 

‘Hey, Kev.’ 

As he turns around, the former missionary looks wide-eyed and a little scared.

‘Don’t overthink it, okay? I’m fine, I promise.’ A small smile slowly takes over Connor’s face as he speaks. Kevin’s worry, his care, fills him with a particular warmth, even on his darkest days. 

‘But while you’re on your way, could you fill up my water bottle? Please? I’m lazy.’ 

Connor makes his best puppy dog expression, 

‘Of course.’


	4. Chapter 4

When Kevin comes back, Connor has already set up the barre back in the middle of the room. He looks up, delight flitting across his face before he scans Kevin from head to toe.

‘Those really do look better on you than on me,’ he says, to which Kevin can only stick his tongue out. 

‘You’re just saying that to sweet-talk me before putting me through my painful paces.’ 

He’s under no impression that this’ll be painless. It might not hurt now, but Kevin fully expects his muscles to be sore tomorrow. 

And Connor goes all in straight away, trying to show Kevin how to properly align his body. Trying being the key word here. 

‘No, don’t pull up your shoulders like that,’ he admonishes, gently, before putting his hand square on Kevin’s stomach.

‘Lengthen your abs. Don’t… tense anything, that’ll just make you sore.’ 

‘You’re saying this like it’s easy!’

‘Well, I’ve bled and cried enough to know it’s not,’ comes the prompt rebuke, as Connor circles Kevin once more. 

‘But you’re looking a lot better already.’ 

The redhead teaches him arm positions (‘Pretend you’re holding a champagne flute, not a solo cup! And you’re definitely not holding a burger either… just, relax your fingers!’) and instructs Kevin stand on his tiptoes far too long, before making him bend over for even longer. 

‘You burning yet?’

‘Gosh, Connor, you’re taking too much pleasure in this.’ 

Because yes, Kevin’s muscles are burning. Starting to, at least. From his folded up position, with his knees slightly bent, too, he can’t look up, but his thighs are starting to complain. 

‘Well, come up, then. Slowly, and bend your knees a bit more. I promise the rest will be easier.’ 

When Connor finally allows him to stretch, the blond breathes a sigh of relief before shaking out his legs. A look at his watch reveals it’s only been ten minutes, but they definitely felt longer. 

And Kevin has no clue how long a traditional ballet class lasts for, but he’s probably in it for another hour or so. But Connor is patient, and explains everything three times. 

Like turnout, which in between has them giggling like school kids because Kevin doesn’t get it. 

‘Nooooo, don’t turn out so far,’ Connor says, trying to stay serious. 

‘You’ll waddle like a penguin like that,’ at this point he has to stop and actually, genuinely giggle, ‘and your knees are pointing in completely different directions. It looks painful, and you can seriously injure yourself.’ 

Kevin can’t help but look at the redhead’s feet then, before meeting his eyes and raising his eyebrows. 

‘That rule doesn’t apply to you, then, Mister 180-degrees?’ 

With a sassy little flick of his head, Connor laughs quietly. 

‘I’ve been dancing for 20 years now,’ he starts. 

‘My turnout has been trained for just as long, and I may have forced it when I was younger. It’s okay, you’ll do just as well with less. And yours is amazing for someone who’s never danced.’

He always knows what Kevin wants to hear. So, with the praise making him feel a little more confident, the former missionary adjusts hist turnout - which in turn results in more praise from Connor. 

Kevin is very pleased with himself, indeed. And he grows more confident with every step, every bend. 

Behind him, Connor is a comforting, reassuring presence. Free of judgement, or any indication that he could be annoyed, the dancer calmly leads their class as if he’d never done anything else. 

The only giveaway that there’s more are the coy glances, the little smiles thrown Kevin’s way when he does somethign well. It’s in the way Connor touches Kevin’s body for corrections, the way he gently runs a hand along his back in guidance and praise. 

Or how the redhead tries to subtly adjust his own range of motion. Kevin is under no impression that Connor could raise his legs higher, hold positions longer or do some fancy tricks. 

Instead, it’s all very slow and measured. He speaks calmly, explaining everything with the patience of a saint, and gets Kevin to balance. A lot. 

He also adorably scrunches up his face a few times, in a grimace Kevin knows to be code for a suppressed yawn. He’s amazed that Connor is still so motivated and focused, despite his energy levels obviously being rather down. The blond nearly wants to tell him to take a break, but that would definitely not be appreciated.

Suddenly, the former missionary feels very elegant indeed. He’s no match for Connor’s quiet grace, but he’s trying and, by the looks of it, succeeding. 

Until the barre is taken away from him, and the couple are standing in the center together. 

’So, pirouettes,’ Connor says, hands resting on his hips. The blond takes him in once more. He’s definitely lost weight over the past months. It’s not too bad, but some of Connor’s muscle looks a bit more defined, more prominent. The grey tights he’s wearing don’t hide anything, either. 

Kevin would say something, pay his lover a compliment, if he didn’t know Connor doesn’t like himself particularly much like this. He even called himself scrawny, which the blond heartily disagreed with; but like so many things right now, it ended in tears. 

Today’s laughter is, as always, a more than welcome change. 

‘Kevin, are you listening?’ 

‘Uh, what? Sorry, I zoned out, I think.’ 

An embarrassed blush rises in his cheeks. Connor just chuckles drily. 

‘You can check me out later,’ he teases. 

‘And don’t object, I noticed. You’re not being subtle, sweetie. 

‘So, again, pirouettes.’ 

He shows Kevin the basics: stand in fifth, slide your front foot forwards, plie, push off and take the back leg with you, tuck the foot so your toes touch your knee, land in fifth, plie. 

Executing the steps, however, isn’t all that easy, and Kevin finds himself flailing and trying not to fall. It goes well enough, until he slips and lands on the hard floor. 

Seconds later, a concerned Connor looms over him, eyes wide and a hand covering his mouth. For a moment Kevin believes him shocked, until he can hear a little giggle. 

He smiles at the redhead, wide and toothy and entirely too smug for the situation. That’s the last straw, and they both break into full laughter, Connor flopping onto the floor next to him. 

It’s a wonderful sound to hear him laugh. So rare, too, although his mood swings, and his general depressed state, have massively improved since starting the latest medication. 

Kevin grasps his partner’s hand, their fingers linking as they take a humorous timeout. As if on its own accord their breathing falls into sync, even when they’re still giggling. 

‘Come on, I’ll get you turning.’ 

With that, Connor hops up and extends a hand to Kevin. As he pulls him up, the blond takes his chance. After gently squeezing Connor’s fingers, he confidently lets his hands land square on the other man’s slim hips. 

‘Let me know if anything about this isn’t okay, yeah?’

Then Kevin presses his lips to Connor’s, and the redhead can’t resist him, even if he wanted to. He lets himself be crowded, gently, against the barre, melting into Kevin’s body with a little sigh. 

‘You good?’ 

The former District Leader nods, slightly, before he leans up for another kiss. Kevin is too happy to reciprocate, and it quickly becomes deeper, becomes more. Connor’s hands run over Kevin’s chest, his shoulders, as if mapping them out. 

In return, one of the blond’s hands gently cradles his partner’s cheek, while the other starts wandering. He touches Connor’s sides, enjoying the little gasp the action elicits, before daring to be a bit bolder.

As Kevin’s wandering fingers switch between playful dancing and firmer strokes, he feels Connor grow in confidence, too. At some point, one of his hands ends up stroking Kevin’s neck, playing with his hairline and running into the thick strands. 

The young man takes it as the okay to be a bit more forward himself. But as his hand sneakily slips under Connor’s shirt, searching out bare skin, the hand in his hair vanishes and grips his elbow instead. 

‘Stop.’ It’s a gasp and barely audible between their kisses; Kevin immediately draws his hand back. After a moment’s hesitation, he takes Connor’s hand and looks at him.

’Too much?’

The redhead just nods and makes to open his mouth, but Kevin silences him with another quick kiss. 

‘If you’re about to say sorry - don’t. It’s okay, and there’s nothing to apologize for.’ 

’Thank you.’

Then Connor’s arms wrap around him, and Kevin feels all warm and fuzzy inside. He pulls the redhead closer still, and then they just stand. And breathe. And cuddle. 

‘How keen for those pirouettes are you, actually?’ 

‘Is that you asking to go home?’ 

Before he can say anything more, a jaw-splitting yawn from Connor answers any and all questions. He still nods, and Kevin feels his heart flutter. 

‘Sorry, I’m… knackered. Mind-knackered.’ 

He actually sounds sheepish, and maybe a little embarrassed. Kevin just pulls back to look at his partner; the freckled face, damp hair. 

Depression is a weird illness, Kevin thinks. To the unsuspecting bystander, Connor would probably look normal and healthy. He does to Kevin, a lot of the time, and yet there’s something off about him. 

‘Well, let’s get home, then.’ 

‘Are you really okay with that? I mean, you wanted to learn, and now I’m being…’ 

‘Connor.’

‘What?’ 

‘You’re stuck with me for a long time. I’ve got all the time in the world to learn.’ 

Without another word, Kevin slings his arm around Connor’s waist, leading him out of the studio. They don’t separate until they’re home - except to quickly change. 

As the sun hits both their faces, and Connor adorably scrunches up his nose, Kevin knows what luck really, truly means.


	5. Chapter 5

When a freshly showered and changed Connor pops into the kitchen, Kevin silently sets his mug down. 

He’s been staring out of the window for the better part of 20 minutes - ever since they ended their nap and the redhead insisted that he really needed a shower and _no, Kevin, alone, because I don’t want to get sidetracked_. 

The former missionary knows Connor has picked up on his weird mood when a warm hand gently lands on his shoulders. 

‘Are you okay, Kevin? Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong, today?’ 

_Oh, gosh, Connor, if you did something wrong, then what does that mean for me?_

Instead of saying it, Kevin swallows, then turns around and sighs.

'Connor, we need... no, I need to talk to you.' 

'Oh... okay?' 

Kevin could see the worry instantly clouding over Connor's face. He wishes he'd never said anything, but now... it was the time, and it was necessary. 

'Well, I need to confess something, kinda.' Walking over to his bag, Connor always following, the young man draws out the black notebook. The entire morning, it had sat in there like a lead weight. Kevin had never really forgotten about it, the guilt in his stomach an ever-present reminder. 

'I found this, this morning,' he mumbles, before slowly passing over the offending item. Kevin is sure he looks guilty. Connor can probably read his face like an open book. 

'And I shouldn't have even touched it, least of all taken it. I'm sorry.' 

'That's okay,' comes the immediate answer. The ginger's hands are running over the cover and spine, as if caressing a precious thing. Maybe a lover, even. 

There's the slightest hesitation in Connor's next movement. If Kevin didn't know him so well it'd be easy to miss, but the pause in his hands, the way his shoulders move and the little breath he takes are all giveaways. Then a pair of blue eyes are fixed on him, open and questioning. 

'Did you... read it?' 

Now it's Kevin's time to take a breath. He doesn't know how to properly answer, stunned into silence by the open rawness in Connor's demeanour. He looks as vulnerable as Kevin assumes him to be, and the former missionary knows whatever he says next is best worded carefully. 

'No,' it shoots out, before he can stop himself. 

'Yes. No. Kinda. I... I didn't read, really, only like... the first line.' 

When he looks up and meets Connor's gaze, Kevin feels the blood draining from his own face, as the residual warmth and content he felt vanish. The former District Leader looks as if he's just been slapped across the face. Eyes blown wide, a hand covering his mouth, he appears locked in and unsure. The utter disbelief, entrenched in the lines of his face, makes Kevin regret ever getting out of bed that morning.

They just stare, for however long, before a low keening - Kevin has no other word for it - leaves Connor's mouth. 

'You... you read it?' His voice is not much beyond a whisper; listening to the edge, the way it breaks, triggers something in Kevin. He downright surges forward, but when his fingers are just about to touch Connor's waist, his hands, the redhead takes a step back. 

'I did,' Kevin mumbles, shame and guilt pouring freely. 

'But only the first four words. "Well, this is hard" you...' 

'Don't quote it! Do not say or quote or mention any other word of this, from this, to me.'

Rage. That one's new. Kevin can see the rage, the anger taking over his partner's face for a fleeting moment. He doesn't know whether it's directed at him, or the depression, or at Connor - all three are possible, but only one is valid. 

'Look, Connor, I'm sorry,' Kevin tries again. Across from him, rage turns back to shock, to rage, to shock, to rage, to shock. 

'You fooled me,' Connor whispers. 

'You... you read this, and then you spend half a day pretending it didn't happen, as if gauging whether I'd find out.' 

'No! No, Connor, that was definitely not what...' 

'You thought you could get away with this. You... you took the risk of hurting me, for your own personal gain.' 

With every word his voice gains strength and a sharp, cutting edge. It’s as close as Connor ever comes to raising his voice, and it makes the hairs on Kevin’s arm stand up. 

Poptarts had said there would be rage; heck, even Connor had warned Kevin. Everyone had said depression, especially in young men their age, could come with anger and aggression. 

But it's so strange to see, to hear. Especially from Connor, who is usually more soft-spoken and just about the most diplomatic person Kevin knows. 

Then again, it's not like the redhead is without reason. 

'No, I swear. I... I should've told you earlier. Heck, I never even should've touched it, but…,’ the young man can’t help the exasperated, downright annoyed sigh. He rests his forehead in his palm as he looks at Connor.

‘Why did you leave it lying around?' 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Kevin slaps his hand over his lips. He swore himself he'd never rise to it, no matter what Connor said. And just like that, he failed. 

The redhead just stares once more, looking vulnerable and seriously hurt, as if he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Kevin can see tears pooling in his eyes. As the first ones spill and he reaches out to wipe them away, Connor swiftly turns. 

With shaking shoulders, he quickly makes his way towards their bedroom. Not without throwing a look across his shoulder, though, directly at his partner. The disappointment, the hurt, the sadness is rolling off him in waves, so much so Kevin stops breathing for a few second. 

Then, the door falls shut, noisily. Connor doesn't lock it, which Kevin takes as a somewhat good sign, but he doesn't dare to even go near. Silence falls. He can hear a low rustling, presumably Connor crawling under the sheets. Gosh, he can hear the redhead’s hiccuping quiet sobs, if he really focuses. 

Kevin feels like barging in, yet all the courage he can muster only takes him to standing in front of the door. His arm is raised, waiting to knock, but something is making him pause, hesitate. 

When he finally decides to, it takes four knocks to get any reaction. The answer is not what Kevin hoped for. 

'Go away. Leave me alone.' 

Even if he’s not a noisy crier, the rough quality of his voice gives away that Connor is, indeed, in tears. 

'I'm sorry, Connor. I really, really am, darling.' 

No answer. Kevin lets himself fall against the door, back first, before sliding down towards the floor. It's a movie pose, and one he so often made fun of, and here he is. And it's his own fault. 

'I know I disappointed you...' 

'You hurt me,' comes the muffled answer. He needn’t have said it, because Kevin can hear the coarse edge in Connor’s voice.

'I know. I'm sorry.' 

Nothing. 

'I love you, Connor. More than anything in this world. It was wrong, and hurtful, and invasive, and you're right to be upset and angry. I'm sorry.' 

Nothing still but quiet, quiet sobs - Connor probably wants to hide them - and the occasional rustling of cloth. 

The longer he listens, the more Kevin feels a dull ache spread from his chest. It takes him far longer than it should to realise it's fear. Another two minutes and it fullt sinks in that he just risked everything - their relationship, his happiness, Connor's happiness. Connor's mental health. Just to satisfy his own, selfish curiosity. 

His phone’s vibration rouses Kevin from his gloomy thoughs. It’s a message from Poptarts, of all people, and a single line. 

'What have you done?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Naughty Kevin. And of course, Poptarts is to the rescue! 
> 
> As always, I hope you liked it - and yes, things are generally looking up for the boys. I promise.


End file.
